Tired of Play

Tired of play! tired of play!

What hast thou done this livelong day?

The birds are silent, and so is the bee;

The sun is creeping up temple and tree;

The doves have flown to the sheltering eves

And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves.

Twilight gathers and day is done,

How hast thou spent it, restless one?

Playing? But what has thou done beside,

To tell thy mother at eventide?

What promise of morn is left unbroken?

What kind word to thy playmate spoken?

Whom hast thou pitied and whom forgiven,

How with thy faults has duty striven,

What hast thou learned by field and hill?

By greenwood path, and singing rill?

Well for thee if thou couldst tell,

A tale like this of a day spent well,

If thy kind hand has aided distress,

And thou pity hast felt for wretchedness;

If thou hast forgiven a brother's offence,

And grieved for thine own with penitence;

If every creature has won thy love

From the creeping worm to the brooding dove,

Then with joy and peace on the bed of rest,

Thou wilt sleep as on thy mother's breast.